Read Post 1 'Something You Don't Know'
Read Post 2 'Breast under(a)wear(ness)'
This weekend I've been enthusiastically :-[ aware of the pink of peptobismol. . .and it got me thinking about side effects of cancer treatments. I went to breastcancer.org and found the Treatment Side Effects page. There are over a hundred treatment side effects listed in alphabetical order. Death is not listed.
Today, during the social hours of church meetings and activities, I became annoyed by the persistent shifting of my selected outfit and realized how capably a bra holds everything in place: boobs, clothes, attention. . .? As I tugged discretely, trying to shift back into comfort, I inwardly huffed a little, longing for that old familiar cradle.
I quickly reminded myself that some women don't even get to wear their own breasts under their outfits any more, and humbly quieted my heedless qualm.
There has been history of breast cancer and other cancers in my family, actually. I had a young cousin die of cancer; I think he was almost seven. I remember my younger sister and I were on the trampoline when we got the news of his passing. We both plopped down and started crying. Whenever I picture him I see a glowing, bluish light behind a halo of wispy almost-gone hair, a smile powered by courage, and eyes that saw beyond: windows to the assurance and hope of the loving embrace of God. His youngest brother, when still a toddler, fought and beat cancer. He's now in high school and about as strong and as tall as a horse.
My grandmother survived a breast cancer battle. I don't remember anything about her being down n' out. If ever she was, as I imagine she must have been, she seamlessly resumed grandmotherhood and shows so few signs of the interruption. Maybe I'll build up the nerve to ask her about it; maybe she'll tell me what it was like. Not exactly a hoppin' topic.
So anyway, unhappily aware am I that my chances of becoming a pink and hairless heir of cancer might be pretty good.
I haven't read up on many stories of suffering yet. A lot of survivor stories are so packed with positivity, the suffering doesn't get much mention. Who likes to dwell on the pain? I'm in awe at their triumph over extreme difficulty, the likes of which I'm sure I can't even imagine.
This lady's story was remarkably good-humored. I recommend it.
It takes ponderous effort to be grateful for something I've always had. Well, I guess I've really only had breasts since what, twelve, thirteen? Maybe it was even later before I actually had anything that remotely filled a bra. Late bloomer. But they've just been there, more or less, for a good fifteen years and I haven't given them a whole lot of thought. Well, okay, sure I have, but what I mean is, I haven't worried about losing them or waking up and them not being in place. . . .
I'm grateful for thus-far healthy breasts. Ladies, may you ever so remain---to entertain a happy husband (can I type that? J) and nourish several babes.